Schism
by Azure
Summary: Zeke & Casey slash; Sometimes what you perceive isn't always true.


i

Because he lives through his camera, seeing the world in sharp crisp images of black and white. Casey waits against the transcendence of dreamscapes that will never be and never will. Snap one, snap two, snap three goes his shutter – quick in succession to capture the joy on Delilah's face. In this angle, with eyes half closed and smile shining too brightly in the half cast sun, she's near perfect. Capture Zeke with cigarette just there, hovering before lips awaiting for a taste. Back hunched over slightly, the world disappearing with the curve of shoulders and glint in eye. Capture Stokley against a tree, wind catching hair in the right moment. Melancholy is the mood that's bright across the lens. Capture Stan just being. Quiet, a touch of removal from this realm, yet more clear and present than past encounters. Capture Gabe, when his attention is distracted, head pressed against locker, gaze pointed downward toward hands pressed against metal. Casey would glimpse through his developed work, pasting and edging them together and he'll gaze and remember. Then he'll cut them into miniscule pieces.

ii

Because he's the strange kid – Delilah told him so while he was proofing the newspaper pictures. It's no shock to his nerves, everyone knows this is true of him. Sits by himself, saddled up with graphic novels and indulging in the world of Fantastic Four and Silver Surfer. He decided quite a long time back that he favored those worlds than this. Where super heroes saved people like him from humiliation and tormentors.

Clothes too loose, his mother complained, patting clothing into place frown forming on lips. But he liked it that way. Easier for him to shrink from steady eyes, even though it doesn't seem to work on most days. He leans back in the chair in Spanish class, watching as Gret Holden and Tim Vesner send several spitballs into the unpopular Janice Trellwell's hair – her doing her own shrinking as she leans forward, tears forming on lids as she tries to ignore the snickering around the classroom. Casey would take a picture – the tears standing out on smooth cheek, long eyelashes blinking rapidly holding them back. Beautiful. But that'll be more insult to the injury.

iii

Because he doesn't flinch when their strikes occur – fierce and quick. Gabe's fingers curling into the fresh flesh between shoulder blades, squeezing periodically trying to get him to revoke a cry of pain. But he's resilient, staring upward at him waiting. Just waiting. As the fist connects with a fresh patch of skin that'll end up bruised at the end of the day, he curls into himself – protecting his camera. Maybe it's a silent agreement between them, that Gabe will never outwardly attack this most cherished object - all Casey has to do is protect it. Or maybe it's so because Gabe thinks of him as pathetic and doesn't want to inflict anymore unnecessary pain. Knee sharp to his chest and he falls, crashing onto the floor instantly curling into the ball he's practiced for too many times. It doesn't stop until Gabe's tired and bored and with a final kick, he's left to his lonesome, fingers caressing new welts that swell upon upper arm. 

A noise alerts his attention and Zeke is leaning against the opposite wall, mood unreadable as he pushes off and walks by saying "Why don't you ever fight the fuck back?" Casey doesn't know either.

iv

Because he saved the world. These words still foreign on his lips as he walks down the hallway, many of his peers who two weeks previous pushed him into lockers, now applaud and clap him on the back. It's all startling and frighteningly new. Delilah's arm hooked strongly around his as she casually glides him around the hallways, the air surrounding her a triumphant marvel. Smile here, quick kiss on the lips and explanation there and Casey is instantly one of them and this almost scarily parallels Mary Beth's recent attempts. 

His parents don't discuss what happened in the course of the past month with him, shoving reality toward the backburner. Mother sharing food silently and father discussing his workday and hushing him whenever he broached anything near out of the ordinary. 

He spends most his time in Zeke's car, fiddling with the radio buttons, switching channels all too rapidly and Zeke silent as they drive to some unknown plane on the universe. It doesn't matter, Casey thinks, as long as Herrington is the small smudged mark in the mirror. Window pulled open, wind nudging against flushed cheeks and when they pull over, getting out and sitting upon the heated hood, they watch the starlit day blend into the raven night. Zeke whispers "fucking beautiful", eyes for a moments' time cutting toward him and Casey doesn't ask if all he's referring to is the sky. 

v

Because it is different. Zeke listens, with a sharp flickflick of his wrist as he sends ash toward the rushing ground, to Casey's blurring words as he speaks about everything and anything that crosses his mind. The quiet unsettles him. Tucking legs underneath body, Casey let's his fingers out the window, wind caressing and ripping back and forth. He talks about comics, the moons of Jupiter, his wishing of bringing his camera along, and the future. He stalls a bit when Zeke takes a too sharp right turn cutting off a gray sedan, sound of horns blanketing the still setting. He talks softer having the words melt into the air and when Zeke stops the car (an area Casey recognizes dimly as Wheeler Park), Casey finally stops. 

Inside carriage darkened to points where Casey could only make out the light flickering on the outer tip of the wore down cigarette. Fingers wrap themselves around a thin wrist and Zeke leans forward, words brisk and hard. "Shut up. Just shut up." Casey doesn't correct him that he's indeed quite shut up, when a rough thumb brushes against the curve of his jaw, tipping head sideways against leather upholstery. Lips just as brisk and hard against his as those words, hand cupping the back of his head keeping him still. Casey's eyes remain open (_No. No. No. What the fuck about Delilah?_ But these strand of thoughts don't seem to accomplish it's work), taking in the tripled slope of Zeke's too close nose and eyes pinched tightly. It ends as Casey tangles his fingers in Zeke's shirt, eyes closing, and mouth edging open. He slumps against the seat breathing irregular and he chances a look toward Zeke who's reaching in his front pocket for another cigarette (where the hell did the other one go?) eyes shielded as he lights the tip. The quietness is interrupted as a car passes, flashing lights across the front carriage illuminating them for a moment. And just like that, everything reverts to as before and Casey doesn't let questions cross his lips. The car restarts and Zeke briefly, and Casey isn't sure if this is all apart of his imagination, smiles at him. As the car re-travels across familiar roads, Casey licks his lips, tasting burnt cigarettes and blank wonder. And later once lights are off and the quiet of the house is the only noise in his ears, he'll quickly jerk himself off to thoughts of Zeke's taste and mouth. 

vi

Because he'll miss it. Suitcases packed and shoved in the corner as the rest of the house is quiet. Mother out to a dentist appointment and father fishing with several friends. In his peripheral vision, Zeke's stretched outwards among the stripped bed, knees hooked over the edge and hands joggling a stuffed bear that Delilah gave him two months previous as an anniversary present. Words cut across the room to him where he's continuously neatly folding shirt after shirt and lays them in the half full suitcase. The one sided conversation dips into television, football, and various films ("did you see the one with that bastard, Leo Dicaprio as a fucked up coke addict? Actually pretty good"). Casey blocks out half of it, zipping up one suitcase before pulling another in front. Zeke changes the course of the conversation to different females he's come to fancy. Brunettes with dark eyes, blondes with medium hair, brunettes and blondes with long legs and he pauses and that _does_ catch Casey's attention. 

His fingers still over the suitcase as Zeke lowly says "and sometimes boys" pause - damn fucking pause "do you think of that, Case?" 

But Casey doesn't answer as his hands regain motion. Jeans folded, chucked into suitcase and repeat. Zeke remains quiet and the room seems to have shrink for only Casey to pay heed to the different breathing patterns each has taken. Once he's finished with the last bits of clothing, he sits back on his heels, fingers zipping the last suitcase. Standing up, he stacks them in the corner, body leaning against them and when Zeke's voice resounds in the room with a light "come here" he does.

vii

Because Zeke's eyes are shadowed, darkening as Casey steps closer. Casey shouldn't go near him, his legs almost opened wantonly as he perches on the edge of the bed, own eyes watching own fingers tracing an unknowable pattern on a pant leg. Stuffed bear rests undisturbed along Zeke's chest and Casey reaches for it, Zeke's hand quick as he grips his wrist. 

"Do you?" and Casey wants to answer with a 'fuck off' while tugging wrist out of the soft grasp, with a laugh but instead he stills. Tongue outlines the bottom lip, "you think about that kiss, don't you? Possibly even jerk-off to it" and it's a bait – Zeke looking at him waiting for him to cave and maybe Zeke will think that all those thoughts previous of him was right. That Casey boy was a closet fag after all. 

His own question rises and slips between lips,"do you?" and he's falling, hands pressing against Zeke's chest keeping him semi-upright and Zeke's face is too close, too intimate as he watches lips murmur "perhaps."

viii

Because, he reasons with himself, boys shouldn't kiss other boys who are dating other girls. Zeke's lips presses lightly against the corner of his mouth, tongue edging along his lower lip, teeth tugging. Casey has the words in his mind, sees them even as he turns his head and pushes further against Zeke, mouth opening. He shouldn't be doing this. He knows this and certainly Zeke knows this but it doesn't stop him from curling fingers in Zeke's shirt, own tongue quick against the other. Zeke's hand cups his hip, kneading flesh through shirt as Casey gently squirms in the hold. Fingers tug the shirt Casey's wearing upward, smoothing over skin and Casey jerks with the surprised cold touch. Lips become disconnected and breathing is too loud, faces reddened and Casey pulls away further, words of "I can't" a ghost upon lips as Zeke's arms fall away from his body. His eyes are still dark, fingers once more tracing invisible patterns on jeans and upward in Casey's gaze, erection strains against zipper. He thinks of apologizing, because getting dismissed by him, Casey, the freaky kid who killed aliens, must hurt. Bad. Below, mother jingles keys and the front door opens as "Casey honey, I'm home" floats upstairs. 

Zeke moves away from the bed, eyes surveying his room quickly before focusing back on him. "I'll see you tomorrow, hmm?" But Zeke doesn't await an answer as he turns and leaves the room. Casey moves toward the bedroom door, listening as his mother and Zeke exchange polite conversation about weather, her appointment, and other pleasantries. The back door closes and Casey presses his forehead against the wall, rolling "shit" over his tongue constantly.

ix

Because it's different – life shifting into the new. Casey's suitcases neatly packed and stored on the train, ready to be whisked off to Michigan State. Delilah's arms firm around his body and flower scent surrounding his senses as she murmurs quietly about how much she'll miss him and for him to expect a call every weekend. Casey doesn't know in another three months, Delilah would have met a man that was a decade older and in her income bracket. She'll write with words that declare love and send pictures of herself in lingerie, but at night, she wouldn't be moaning Casey's name.

As she pulls away, she reaches into her shoulder bag, taking out a taped folded paper informing him it's from Zeke. "Such a puss he is. Said he couldn't make it so to give you this. Yeah, whatever. He can't excuse himself from whatever shit he's doing to come say goodbye to a friend?" Casey absently nods. Yeah, Delilah, right. Hands take the note, fingers tucking it into his carryon bag. 

Mother is crying into the fold of father's arms and Casey goes over, hugging her to him. She cries for the past, present and her baby going off to another state and leaving home. The PA system announces his train's departure and her arms tighten around his body further. Easing out her hold with his father's help, he kisses her quickly on the cheek saying words of confidence that he doesn't fully believe as the nervous jittery feeling ravels in his stomach. Turning toward his father, he gives him a firm handshake, father's hand clasping his shoulder, smile wide on lips and probably for the first time in eighteen years, Casey feels as if his father is truly proud of him.

Delilah gives him one last kiss as he boards upon the train, choosing a seat next to the window, watching as his father wraps a protected arm around mother's shoulder as she waves. Half of him wants to leave the train, crawl back to his parents' arms and never leave. Staying his destined pathetic life around Herrington doing odd jobs to support family and his only claim to fame as 'alien boy', which was one inch worst than local high school quarterback hero. The train begins to depart and he gives one final wave as he presses forehead to cool glass as he watches them blend into woods and plains. 

He's going to a state where no one knows him. No one knows that he's the one that practically got shit on in high school, never really kissed a female until Delilah nor his affliction toward the more undefined weird. Carryon bag nestled by his feet and he opens it, sifting through materials until his gaze falls on a wrinkled folded paper sticking to the side of a Sandman comic. He pauses, hands flipping the paper over and over before thoughts win out and he slides a finger underneath the tape. 

__

It doesn't matter what I write now, but I am sorry that I missed you in your grand farewell to short skirts and people even stranger than you – but I know you'll enjoy it all. Things have been off kilter between us I know and even though you may be setting up a Zeke dartboard in your dorm room, I'm going to miss your little bug eyed freaky self. Remember man, this is your golden ticket to get the hell out of Herrington, leave the slackers behind, and make something of yourself. Forget the past – look toward the future and prove those fuckers wrong. Hey, probably in a month or so I'll come out and visit. Talk to you soon.

Zeke

PS: You're a suck ass kisser, you little tart.

He re-reads the note (quite frankly, he's not sure how many times he does this) smile growing in each once over. The smile soon dissolves into a short loud laugh, earning him shifty looks darted his way by other passengers. Reading through it a last time, he neatly folds it and tucks it into the front pocket of his shirt where he finds his fingers touching repeatedly during the train ride.

x.

Because everything is quiet. Seven months pass and he's settling into himself, a different Casey emerging than the one he left behind in Herrington. He sits at his desk, term paper on 1600s European Art History finished and printed out neatly. Leafing through his notebook, he tears off a clean sheet of paper, labeling a few items that the room needed and took a couple of thumbtacks to pin to the bulletin board so Darrell could see it clearly. His eyes shift over the other pinned notes, taking older cluttered ones down. His eyes pause where Zeke's note lays, fingers drifting against the yellowing edges. 

"Do you read that every time before you leave?" Darrell asked once, feet nestled upon the coffee table as he watches morning cartoons. 

"Yeah, most days. It's like my mantra – sounds silly doesn't it?" He pushed the last tack into the paper and stands back reading the wording to himself.

"Naw, naw it doesn't. Shit, a lot of people have mantras. The only thing I can't wrap my head around is that you've kissed someone with the name Zeke. Who the fuck names their children that?"

Casey threw a pen at him, "Shut the fuck up." And they laughed, but Casey didn't tell him that the sole reason Zeke's note was attached to the board was because a part of him still wanted to hold on to that past. To have someone that maybe loves him makes him forget some of the shit in the past few months. 

Zeke never did call, never did come visit and it did bother him, but yet Casey found himself never picking up the phone nor writing a letter to ask the reasons behind it. He unpins and folds the note, resting it on the computer notepad, turning to gather his bag and coat. He's going to leave it behind, he decides, even though most of him doesn't believe the words that filter quietly in thought. The term paper goes in and he zips the bag as he slips on his coat. He's going to leave it behind, he silently says firmly, voice repeating the words in a whisper. 

Because everything is as it should be.


End file.
